The small bedroom was dark, save for a square shaft of sunlight that was falling from on high through the single window. Her stockinged feet were warmed in the golden patch, but the rest of her remained dimly shadowed.
She had polished the looking-glass that was propped on the long, low dresser. It was leaned against the wall to allow her a view of her face. Within the slightly wobbly reflection, there stood a woman she scarcely recognized.
The youthful exuberance that once illuminated her sapphire eyes and rosied her full cheeks was nowhere to be found. Now, her eyes were large, solemn pools; vast lakes of memory, of grief, of sullied hopes. Her cheeks were still round and soft, perfectly shaped for the cupping of a large, calloused palm about them. But no palm had touched them for longer than she could recall. The full lips once smiled swiftly and with ease. They still smiled at times. But now their tidy corners remained ever so slightly downturned, in an expression of resignation.
And then there was her hair. Ever had it been her crowning glory, since her youth, when her mother first taught her how to carefully braid the growing, gossamer tresses. She loved the feel of that neat plait, bouncing along her spine as she ran and played. As she learned to ride her father's horses, she would unfasten it and let it flow free and wild, a stream of silvery-gold behind the young woman racing bareback over the plains. It was one of the features about herself in which she took some pride. Even her simple humility could not deny the shimmering beauty of the Mark's sunlight on her river of hair, whenever she chanced to glimpse herself in a puddle or a shop window.
But it was different now, too.
Her fingers drifted up slowly, absent-mindedly. Their tips found the jagged edges of ashen strands, just above her shoulders. A few pieces fell loose and slithered between her fingers. She scattered them into the air.
Why had she done it?
For him?
Was it a dare?
A challenge?
An act of defeat?
An act of defiance?
She stood there for an unknown span of time, staring at herself, at the face she didn't recognize. Laboring inwardly to identify how she felt.
Angry. Hurt. Betrayed. Sorry. Foolish.
Lost.
"Brynleigh! What happened?"
"I need you to tidy up my hair, please, Mildrith."
"But...why does it look thus? What happened?"
"Can you please see what you can do with it, my friend? I am not good with a pair of scissors on my own head."
"Yes, of course, please sit! Forgive me, it's not my place to fling questions at you in such a manner. But...well, are you all right? Can you tell me that, at least?"
"...it just needed to be done."
"I see. I won't say more about it then. Now, let's see what we can do."
